


Chasing Tomorrow

by ravensandtypewriters



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Assassin AU, F/F, Fluff, M/M, Nonbinary Character, Nonbinary Yuri Plisetsky, Rape Mentions, Slow Burn, aged up! yuri plisetsky, angst eventually, assassin! mila babicheva, assassin! victor nikiforov, assassin! yuri plisetsky, at first, kinda an au???, might put in some otayuri when its not paedophilia, prostitute! sara crispino, there will be death and assassiny stuff later, they're 17 to begin with, well slowish, yuuri worked for his family's bakery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-09-11 17:28:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9000067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravensandtypewriters/pseuds/ravensandtypewriters
Summary: Victor Nikiforov. The legend, the whore, the assassin. The man who made the Feltman syndicate invincible. Yuuri accidentally sees Victor fucking stab a man then buys him coffee??? Yeah. The Russian skaters r extra, Phichit is pure, JJ is a giant penis. Spoiler alert: victor n yuuri fall in loveI suck at descriptions I promise the fic is not this pretentious





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> yoooooo so this is kinda an assassin au taking place in a fantasy-type city. the name of the place is Sitz because Sitz sounds kind of similar to city and it takes place in a city. anway, enjoy!

Viktor Nikiforov. Famed assassin of the Feltsman syndicate. Not only could he gut a man with less than a pencil sharpener, he also performed well enough to draw crowds to the Feltsman brothels.

It was to one of these such performances that Yuuri Katsuki was drawn. It would be distasteful to call them “performances” as such; Victor Nikiforov’s superstar grace attracted a crowd, and his flirty yet aloof nature left watchers with more questions than answers as he danced, mingled, seduced, and – at the climax of the night – murdered. Usually after a long party at a count’s house, a prime opportunity to lure highly-paying guests to the best of Yakov’s businesses, the whorehouse on 34th street; his silky hair, lingering gaze, charm and grace enticing men and women alike, just for another glimpse of Victor Nikiforov. So unlike the shy out of place Yuuri Katsuki who was really too poor to be at such a party, lurking in corners on his own; Victor was the life of the party just as Yuuri was the one whose heartbeat was stopped.

However this night was different. Normally Yakov would reserve Victor Nikiforov only for the most prestigious of missions, among lords and ladies where seduction and flattery – his greatest assets – could be put to good use, and could lure more guests to Yakov’s… _other_ businesses.

  
Yet it was on a quiet street in a not-so-pleasant district of Sitz that Yuri Katsuki watched the famed legend Victor Nikiforov murder three men in less than a minute, a silver blur in a dark narrow alleyway.

  
It might have been alright if only Yuri hadn’t made a noise. Hadn’t gasped out after the second man had been stabbed through the stomach, the curved silver blade in Victor’s hand gliding unsteadily down through various fleshy matters until it reached the man’s groin and various intestinal matters spilled onto the barely-paved alley.  
“Hm?” Victor turned his head slightly towards the noise.

  
Sensing an opportunity, the last man alive tried to run. Faster than Yuuri could blink Victor whipped a knife from his sleeve and stabbed the man in the neck.

  
Yuri could only stand frozen and shaking, the pastries he was supposed to deliver fallen to the floor with a weak _crunch_ in their paper bags. Yuri could only stand as Viktor Nikiforov, _the Victor Nikiforov_ , turned to him. Yuri could only stare, at the finely-boned face of Viktor Nikiforov, the man who killed a thousand men, the man who had allegedly drank the blood of the woman who had murdered his family, the man whose virginity had been auctioned off at age fifteen. The bidding had reached over five hundred thousand.

  
“Oh~” Victor sighed, looking Yuuri up and down. “You distracted me. Look at that. Look at the blood on this jacket! It’s worth more than you, you know?” Yuri could only shake and stammer and blink. “How about you take me out to… make up for it?” Victor Nikiforov winked. Facing no response he stepped closer. Yuuri’s blood ran cold and hot as _Victor Nikiforov_ took his hand. Cradled it between two of his own. “Oh, so cold!” Victor wailed dramatically, dropping it. Leaning down, to eye level Victor teased him. “Come on! Unless you _want_ to pay for a new jacket.”

  
Still receiving no response, Victor leaned in until his face was centimetres from Yuuri’s and Yuuri’s cheeks had heated until he resembled a one of his mother’s (severely unpopular) chilli-powder topped scones.

  
“At least tell me your name,” Victor murmured, in a voice meant for bedrooms and darkened hallways, a voice the famed playboy had perfected after twelve years in Yakov’s service.

  
“Y-Yuuri,” Yuuri gasped, not wanting to give anything as easily identifiable as his family name to an assassin – a legendary one at that.

  
“Yuuri, hm?” Victor wrapped his slender fingers around Yuuri’s chin, with enough force to remind Yuuri that although this man before him had the demeanour of a lover, he was still the Victor Nikiforov. “So, Yuuri,” Victor’s breath was warm against his lips. “Where are you taking me out?”

 

**

 

All Yuuri had on him was loose change, so the pair settled for a coffee stand in a slightly nicer part of town.

  
Yuuri had tried to slope away after handing Victor his coffee – Victor’s face was too recognisable so he’d stayed back in the shadows, and the bloodstained jacket was conspicuous to say the least– but Victor walked with Yuuri to a park bench overlooking a lake, and they drank their coffee in silence.

  
“Yuuri?” Victor broke the silence.

  
“Hm?” Yuuri responded.

  
“What did you see back in that alley?”

  
“What?”

  
“You know. In case people ask why deliveries were late. Or why your hands are shaking, that kind of thing. What did you see?”

  
Yuuri gulped. “Oh, uh… um… nothing?”

  
Victor _tch_ ed, shaking his head. “That’ll be no good if anyone asks. Look, Yuuri, you’re red again!” Victor held his hand against Yuuri’s cheek to demonstrate how warm it was and Yuuri flinched away. Yuuri could have sworn he saw Victor’s expression darken for a second before the suave and charismatic Victor Nikiforov returned.

  
“How to spin the truth…?” Victor mused quietly, tapping a finger against his lip (Yuuri was not staring). “I know!” Victor said, a satisfied smirk on his face (Yuuri did not find his enthusiasm attractive). “Yuuri, you can’t mention the… business… at all. You were doing your rounds when you... saw a food fight? between the Ciao Ciao and… the Leroy syndicate? And they… tried to steal your pastries to use as ammunition! And you, uh… valiantly… fought them off and that’s why the pastries are dented.”

  
_Wow,_ Yuuri though, looking dimly up at Victor. _For the most famed assassin in the history of Sitz, he really can be dumb._ “Uh, yeah, Victor…” Yuuri cleared his throat awkwardly. “I don’t think that’s gonna work.”

  
Victor looked amused. _Did I act too well? It was only a joke. Look how cute and sincere he is._  
Encouraged by the fact he hadn’t been gutted, dismembered, or burnt alive, Yuuri continued. “Maybe I could just say I… saw a fight. I couldn’t see who it was but it spooked me so I ran away.”

  
Victor barked a laugh. “Who’d ever believe that! I mean, dropping something just because you saw a fight at night, it’s just not… oh.” Victor stopped when he saw the look on Yuuri’s face. Maybe running might not be the norm for Victor Nikiforov, but for the shy baker’s boy from a middle-class area of Sitz, fleeing was expected. Especially from Katsuki Yuuri.

  
“Alright then,” Victor stretched, tossing his empty coffee cup into a nearby bin. “That’s that sorted. Want me to walk you home?” Yuuri jumped.

  
“Uh, no thanks!” he protested as amicably as he could. Like he wanted an assassin to know where he lived. _Damnit_ , he thought in annoyance _I should have given a fake name_. Victor raised an eyebrow, as if sensing Yuuri’s ulterior motives, but he didn’t question Yuuri as he thanked him for the coffee and sloped off into the night, posture elegant, and the suit’s fit immaculate against his sculpted body (Yuuri was not admiring it) (certainly not the view from behind) (of his ass) (damn).

  
Letting out a sigh, Yuuri tried to throw his cup in the bin like Victor had, but missed. Scooping the cup in the trash, he jogged off to try and finish the rest of the deliveries.


	2. Chapter 2

The next time Yuuri ran into the Yakov syndicate, it was the famed Ice Tiger he faced.

 

At 7pm in his first-floor flat, only a day after the Victor Nikiforov encounter, just before he was about to start his rounds for the Katsuki bakery, Yuuri heard a kick at the door. He knew it was a kick, because of the squeak of a rough sole down wood was just how it sounded when his roommate Phichit needed Yuuri to open the door when his hands and mouth were full of bags.

 

Grabbing a small knife, he hid it under the folds of his apron as he slowly opened the door. On the corridor he was greeted by Yuri Plisetsky. As in, Yuri Plisetsky from the Yakov syndicate. As in, Yuri Plisetsky the assassin expected to exceed Viktor Nikiforov. As in, another fucking assassin. Man, Yuuri sure was meeting a lot of new people in the last few days.

 

“Uh... what do you want?” Yuuri asked Yuri. His voice may have been shaking. Yuuri’s entire body started to shake as he sweated under the Ice Tiger’s glare.

 

Yuri Plisetsky shoved one finger in Yuuri’s face, voice and muscles quivering with pure, unbridled hatred. “I don’t know why Victor Nikiforov let you live. If it were up to me you would have been dead before even leaving that alleyway.” He hissed. “Take one step out of line and I will fucking destroy you.” Yuri turned away and stormed angrily down the narrow stairwell. _How did he know where I lived?_

 

Yuuri stared after him trying to comprehend what had just happened. He may have been so terrified he lost control of his muscles. “OW!”

 

He had quivered so hard he had dropped the knife onto his foot.

 

“Ow, ow, ow, ow,” he muttered to himself as he hopped around his apartment, trying to bandage up his toe. He’d have to make the rounds like this. Thankfully, it had only dented his little toe, though there was a lot of blood and it still hurt a little to walk.

 

Yuuri sighed, _I sure hope he’s the last of it._

 

**

 

“Yoo-hoo!” Yuuri! Over here!” Yuuri jumped and almost dropped the delivery bag. He was passing by the alleyway where he had only yesterday watched Victor Nikiforov murder three men, so he was already on edge. Frankly, Yuuri was proud he hadn’t dropped the bag at the shout.

 

A pair of cerulean blue eyes peered out at him from the murk of the alley. Peering behind the dark shape of her body and her red hair, Yuuri could see to his horror that the corpses – although greatly diminished by the populations of Sitz’s rats – were still there.

 

A woman stepped out of the alleyway. “Yuuri! I’m Mila.”

 

 _Oh, shit._ Thought Yuuri. _Not another one. At this point do I even need to repeat how terrified I am? I mean, three in two days? Give me a break, man._ Trying to harden his voice so it didn’t quaver he managed to ask her “What are you doing here?”

 

“Oh, Yuuri!” she slung her arm around his shoulder, pressing her face close to his confidentially. In a mock whisper she continued “Victor told us about you.”

 

Yuuri’s stomach lurched. “Wha… what?” Yuuri couldn’t decide if he was more shocked that he was encountering _another_ of the Yakov assassins, and that she was treating him like a friend, or that _Yuuri had been important enough for Victor Nikiforov to mention to his friends._

 

Mila laughed, “Oh, yes. We share our stories at Yakov’s. Makes for interesting dinner conversation.”

 

“Do you… visit all of Victor’s witnesses?” Yuuri raised an eyebrow, trying to seem assertive, when what he was really trying to gauge was whether he needed to try and run.

 

Mila threw back her head and let out a peal of laughter that sounded like silver bells. “Oh, Yuuri, you are funny.” Seeing how nonplussed Yuuri was, she reassembled her expression into one less of hilarity and more someone sharing gossip. “Yuuri, you’re… _special,_ ” Mila tried to explain.

 

“I…. don’t understand…” Yuuri queried.

 

“Yuuri, you’re alive!” Mila flung her arms out, as if in celebration.

 

“Yeah, is that… odd?” Yuuri questioned.

 

“Well, normally he would have killed you after you bought him coffee. If he _could_ blackmail you into buying coffee. And when I say normally I mean in the circumstances of every other person that has ever witnessed Victor Nikiforov perform a crime.” Mila explained.

 

Yuuri gulped.

 

“Anyway, must dash. Presents to buy, people to kill. You know how it is. See ya!” with a wave and a hop she was gone, scrambling up to the rooftops before Yuuri lost sight of her.

 

 _Man, I hope I’m not in for anything else,_ Yuuri sighed, trudging on. _I don’t think I can take any more._

 

**

 

Thankfully, Yuuri was underestimating his tolerance for weird shit.

 

His next encounter was not for another two weeks, on the night of the first full moon since he had witnessed the murder, when he was just beginning to think that it could be over.

 

Georgi Popovich arrived via kitchen window, a rose between his teeth and a bag of petals around his waist, which he proceeded to scatter _all over_ the floor.

 

“Yuuri!” he struck a pose, his spiky hair silhouetted perfectly against the full moon. He stuck his leg out. Yuuri sighed and resignedly put down the batter he had been mixing.

 

“I bear a message,” Georgi climbed inside, sticking his leg out further and scattering more rose petals. Yuuri tried to interrupt, to ask him to get out or to stop throwing rose petals, but Georgi was too fast.

 

“Alas, forbidden love!” Georgi’s leg was vertical. One hand held a letter against Yuuri’s mouth, shutting him up, while the other continued to scatter rose petals.

 

“Your dear Victor wrote you this,” Georgi bowed down, one leg extended behind him, and waited for Yuuri to take the letter (still scattering rose petals).

 

Yuuri took it hesitantly, only glancing down for a second to check that, yes, the most elite of Yakov’s syndicate _did_ deliberately keep coming back to him. By the time he looked up, Georgi was gone. _Well, I guess they are the best of the best for a reason,_ he sighed, turning the letter over in his hands.

 

“Yuuri” was written in swirly calligraphy on the front. _Good, so they still don’t know my family’s name._ Tearing it open, a cream coloured piece of parchment slid out – along with a rose – the message on it written in the same script and ink as his name on the front of the letter had been.

 

_My dearest Yuuri,_

_I beseech you to join me, at Le théâtre du soleil– oh, the name is radiant like your eyes – in three days upon the deliverance of this message. At seven o’ clock, would you care to see the acclaimed tragedy Sofian & Lizette with me? _

_My love, do not trouble yourself with a fee; I shall provide funds for a table, dinner and entertainment – although the greatest entertainment shall be unto my heart, in beholding your divine essence._

_I strongly advise your attendance; certain measures have been taken to ensure your cooperation so you may uphold the utmost attention to your love._

_Lovingly, Victor._

Yuuri put the letter down.

 

_What the fuck?_


	3. Chapter 3

Le théâtre du soleil was the most extravagant theatre in the whole of Sitz; its exteriors were gilded. Carved columns featuring forest scenes, depictions of Apollo and Helios and the tale of Icarus lined every window and every entrance. The windows were stained glass, in sunset colours. The domed roof had been painted duck-egg blue. Gilded sunbeams were painted on it, catching the last dying rays of winter sunshine. The finished product dwarfed the four-storey shops on either side of the vast structure.

Yuuri had never ventured inside; a single ticket was half his parents’ monthly earnings, and he had never particularly cared for the theatre.

The exterior did nothing to help Yuuri feel less self-conscious as he loitered on the street outside. Somehow he suspected that his best suit was still subpar. Glancing around buildings at the distant clock tower, he squinted at the time. 6:53pm.

 _Calm down, Yuuri. It’s not like you_ want _him to show up anyway._

6:54pm.

All the same, people were shooting him some weird looks. Standing there on his own.

6:55pm

It would be nice to wipe those expressions off their faces…

6:56pm

 _Nope, this is too awkward. I should just go. I’ll give it_ two more minutes _._ _That’s all._

6:57pm

“Yuuri!” Georgi was running down the street. He was carrying an enormous rose bouquet. Mila was behind him, dragging Yurio. Victor was nowhere to be seen.

“Aww, look at you all early,” Mila let go of Yuri to throw her arms round Yuuri in greeting.

“Mila!” Yuuri said. “What are you doing here? I thought… Victor was coming?”

“Oh, he is,” Mila chirped, releasing Yuuri. “He’s, uh, just coming.”

Georgi leaned in. “don’t worry, we’re sitting away from you two _lovebirds_.” despite himself, Yuuri blushed.

“I’m just here because of that… persuasion in your letter,” Yuuri protested.

“Tch. Pathetic,” the Ice Tiger mumbled, his arms folded, standing slightly away as if he couldn’t _bear_ to be seen associating with them.

Mila and Georgi dragged the Yuris up the stairs, before Mila paused at the top.

“Oh, and Yuuri?” she turned to him, a pleasant smile on her face. “Speaking of persuasion – “she slid two daggers out of her left sleeve. “ – there _will_ be consequences if you fuck up.”

Yuuri gulped. Great motivation for a first date.

Not just any _first date_. _His_ first date. Ever. And he was spending it with a murderer. A totally sexy murderer, but still a murderer.

Yuuri followed Yakov’s group inside, waiting as they instructed the staff of their bookings. Eventually, Yuuri was led to a table for two in the centre of the floor, with a prime view of the stage. Georgi shoved the (enormous) bouquet at Yuuri with the instruction that it was to be given to Victor. The other three followed the waiter to a table in the corner of the room where they could spy on the… _date_.

Yuuri took a seat awkwardly, aware of how much of a loner he looked. He glanced at a large ornamental clock above the entrance. 7:00pm. He slumped down in his seat, staring at the floor.

“Et-hem,” a small clearing of throat.

_Victor!_

Yuuri may or may not have jumped up. Against his better judgement. And upended every object on the table. And almost the entire table itself.

Not Victor. To his credit, the waiter maintained a blank expression. However, Yuuri visibly deflated when he realised he had misidentified the man. “Sorry,” he muttered, cheeks flaming as he tried to fix everything on the table.

“Please, sir, allow me,” the waiter tried to help.

“No, please – “Yuuri insisted. His cheeks were still red.

Arguing with a waiter, red-faced over a table of messy cutlery and Georgi’s bouquet. There really couldn’t have been a better time for Victor to arrive.

And arrive he did, whirling in in another perfectly-tailored suit and coat, pulling off gloves and unwrapping a scarf. Every movement was beautiful, charming and carefully considered as he followed a waitress to Yuuri’s table.

“Yuuri! What a surprise!” Victor said.

Yuuri’s stomach dropped one thousand metres. Yuuri’s temperature rose a thousand degrees.

Victor obliviously continued on. “Have you seen the rest of Yakov’s group? They said they were going to set me up with someone.”

Yuuri was frozen. If possible, worse than when he had witnessed the consecutive murder of three men. This time, he felt like he was going to be sick. Everyone was watching.

“… but enough about me, why are you here Yuuri?” Victor’s words slowed. He seemed to notice Yuuri’s red face, the upended table but most importantly, Georgi’s bouquet. His face faded from the classic playboy, the cool, the orderly, the _infamous_ Viktor Nikiforov smirk to shock and even – _was that…_ embarrassment _there, dusting his cheekbones just a little?_

Viktor looked like he was ready to sit down and pretend that conversation had never happened.

Yuuri, on the other hand, had had enough. Damn Mila’s threats. Death would be a sweet relief from this situation. Yuuri could feel eyes on him. Eyes from everyone in the room, most of whom had looked up when the table had upended, the rest who had been attracted at the entrance of Viktor Nikiforov.

Without a word, he skirted around Viktor, who tried to grasp his suit sleeve, but Yuuri shook him off. Viktor let him go – of course Viktor could have him dead in forty different ways before he could walk five steps.

 _God damn it, Yuuri. You are on a date with_ Victor Nikiforov _, a notorious assassin. Not to mention you know how – how_ you _you are. How could you ever think this was a good idea?_

Gasping for fresh air as he shoved open the outer door, Yuuri stumbled down the entrance steps, letting the door swing shut behind him.

_Oh my god._

 

Mila and Georgi and Yuri had seen what had happened; hopefully they would see fit not to murder him. They might not even bother.

Rising from where he had been slumped against the stair rail, Yuuri stumbled off, a little unsteady, to try and get home.

**

“Yuuri!” Phichit greeted his roommate as soon as he stepped inside their shared flat. “Why’re you back so early?”

Yuuri sighed and took off his coat, “I don’t what to talk about it.” He crossed the room and left Phichit alone in their main room as he sloped into his room, shutting the door behind him and fell into bed.

Yuuri’s room was probably the place he felt safest; it was small and warm, and through a square window he had a view of the distant houses of businessmen and gentry.

Yakov had a house over there somewhere. Although he conducted most business in the lower segment, he was rich enough to enjoy luxuries such as mansion on La Rue du Ciel.

His bed took up most of the room, but it was comfortable and clean so Yuuri didn’t mind sacrificing the floor space for it. The covers were navy blue to compliment his cream walls. Yuuri didn’t have much money, working at his family’s bakery, but sharing an apartment helped save money so the shelves on either side of the tiny fireplace were crammed with books and curios.

“At least I’m safe here…” Yuuri muttered into his bedcovers. _Oh, wait._ He remembered bitterly. _I’m not. If the Ice Tiger knows where I live, I’m sure the others will too._ He sighed and rolled over, staring at the ceiling as he saw Victor in his suit, Victor at the theatre, Victor… murdering three men. Well, it’s not like Victor Nikiforov wasn’t an infamous assassin, and murder wasn’t such a big deal in Sitz. Especially in the district he had been cutting through.

For a moment Yuuri almost felt bad, leaving Victor among the carnage he had caused at Le théâtre du soleil. _No,_ he berated himself. _Victor can handle it. Ha, an assassin with a body count too high to cite unable to handle a little public scandal._

“Yuuri?” Phichit opened the door. “I made you some hot chocolate. What happened?” Phichit came in and sat on Yuuri’s bed, drinking his own hot chocolate. Yuuri gave him the brief rundown. Excluding – of course – all mention of Le théâtre du soleil and Victor Nikiforov.

“Yuuri! Your poor soul!” Phichit exclaimed in all the right places. “You know, it would be rude not to find him and apologise,” Phichit slyly commented once the story was finished. “I’m sure he is eager to see you again. Do you know where to find him?”

Yuuri clapped both hands over his face and slumped back on his pillows. “Yes, I know where to find him.” Yes, he frequented the brothel on 34th street most regularly, although it had been seven years since he’d bought himself out of Yakov’s whorehouses and into the dispatch sector. Yakov still exploited Victor’s publicity and sex appeal to lure new customers into his businesses, Victor whispering in every ear he _might_ be willing to whore himself again for such a pretty face. A load of bullshit, but it worked well.

“No, I… I can’t find him there…” Yuuri said quietly, letting his hands slip off his face in exasperation. “There are too many people, and… wait. I don’t even _want_ to see him again. Oh, thank god! I don’t need to do it.” Yuuri almost cried with relief.

Phichit raised an eyebrow. “If you’re sure, Yuuri. I bet you’ll regret it,” Yuuri didn’t care. He could keep a low profile, get his anxiety in check, maybe move back in with his parents? Victor didn’t know where his parents lived, he would be safe above the Katsuki bakery. He’d move back in. Just for a little while.

 

Over the next week, Yuuri gradually moved his clothes and a few belongings back to his parents’. He only felt another presence around him a few times, but he didn’t see anyone so he always ignored it and moved on. He had moved back into his old life, and had just been living and working at his parents’ for a few days, working behind the counter as well as his nightly delivery rounds, when one morning…

“Yuuri!” Victor threw the door open. Yuuri gulped. “So this is where you’ve been hiding!”


	4. Chapter 4

Yuuri’s hand was trembling around the bag of pastries he had been handing to a customer. _Why is Victor here?_ He was frozen, staring at Victor in the doorway.

Thankfully it was early in the morning, so the middle-aged lady he was serving was the lone customer in the shop, though even she recognized Victor Nikiforov. Taking her pastries and her change, she scurried out of the door, which Victor held graciously open for her. Victor’s prowess may have been seduction, but nearly everyone over twenty cared more about his infamy than his good looks. Most people were under Victor’s radar, but most knew friends of friends who had been his victims.

Nothing of his actions or skill set were shown by Victor’s cheery disposition as he let the shop door swing shut behind him with a _clang_ and proceeded to stare at Yuuri over the counter. He looked a little… embarrassed?

“So, I see you got Georgi’s letter,” Victor said. Yuuri gulped. _Of course it wasn’t from Victor. The whole thing was a set-up, Victor knew nothing about any of it._ Yuuri nodded, mute.

Victor rested his head in his hand briefly. “I apologise. I found a draft, and I hope… they didn’t mention dismemberment and castration in the final version, did they?” yuuri shook his head dumbfoundedly.

Swallowing his nerves he spoke up. “W-what are you doing here?”

Victor laughed. “Oh, Yuuri, I wanted to apologise! Which I’ve done, so… wait, are those piroshkies?!”

Yuuri nodded. “My mot – our chef found the recipe in an old book. An old friend had given it to her.”

“I’ll have four,” Victor said enthusiastically. Yuuri smiled to himself. _His mouth looks like a heart when he’s this happy._ Yuuri scooped four still-warm piroshkies into a paper bag and twisted the ends over before handing it to Victor.

“H-how did you know where I worked?” Yuuri said, stuttering a little as he accepted Victor’s money.

Victor gave him an enigmatic smile, “Yuuri, look at this bag,” Yuuri glanced down at the bag Victor held up. On the wide, emblazoned in green and blue was the logo “Katsuki Bakery” and the address. Yuuri face-palmed. After all he had tried to do to keep his family name secret, and Victor had known from the first time they had met!

Victor smiled down at Yuuri. _He’s so sweet_.

“Well, goodbye!~” Victor strolled out with a wave and a grin and the shop was silent again.

Yuuri sighed. _Victor doesn’t seem dangerous at all. How can_ he _be the infamous Victor Nikiforov?_

**

Yuuri neither heard, felt nor saw any other presence as he continued to work, humming a little as he filled the orders. He couldn’t stop smiling all day.

Yuuri did not see an undercut figure smirking from around a corner.

Yuuri did not smell the slosh of alcohol around the bakery, the shop and his parents’ rooms above.

Yuuri did not hear the hiss of a match as he left for his rounds.

Yuuri did not feel the heat of the flames; by the time had returned from his deliveries, the bakery was already in cinders.

A few spare embers as well as whispers of ash glistened in the cool night air. There were citizens, with buckets of water; the Katsukis were well-liked, people had tried to help. But dulled by sleep it had taken too long to draw enough buckets of water to contain the blaze. The edges of the adjacent buildings were singed, the fire barely contained before it had been extinguished.

In slow motion, Yuuri beheld the chaos. His heart beat louder than it had at the theatre, than it had when he had witnessed Victor Nikiforov murder three men. He moved through the ashes. His childhood, his family’s business, broken down into dust.

“M-my family…” Yuuri whispered. He grasped at the sleeve of a well-wisher, a neighbour. “Where… where…” his voice was raw; he was inhaling smoke from the smouldering wreckage, mind spiralling again and again through the unthinkable which had become the probable.

The man’s face fell as he recognized Yuuri as the Katsuki boy, face quickly rearranging into a mournful and reserved mask, one that suggested phrases like ‘my condolences’ and ‘they were great people’. Yuuri could tell the news before the man opened his mouth. His eyes filled with tears.

“I’m sorry, Yuuri. There must have been an accelerant; by the time people could get out to help, there was nothing we could do for your parents…”

Shuddering, Yuuri released the man, shaking from his fingertips to his toes. He tried to scramble back into the wreckage, find anything that remained, of his parents. He tripped over a brick and fell into the ashes, coating himself in the grey dust.

“Hey, kid – you don’t want to go in – hey, kid!” Yuuri was grabbed from behind, after he scrambled to his knees, tears dripping onto the “brick” he had fallen over. It was a skull.

Clamping both hands over his mouth he scrambled back, falling through more ash, eyes fixed on the empty eye sockets of that skull, his family, his parent, _which one? You can’t even tell._

“Excuse me – sir - are you – sir, are you listening? – sir, was this your family’s place of residence?” a middle-aged law-enforcement officer had his hand on Yuuri’s shoulder.

“I-I can’t.. I can’t…” Yuuri was mumbling. Still shaking, _I can’t breathe._

“Son, do you have a place you can go?” the officer asked again. Through the swirling mess of smoke in his brain, a train of thought emerged.

“Yes, I – I have a flat.”

“And what’s your name?”

“Katsuki Yuuri.”

The interrogation continued, Yuuri, dazed, giving his answers to the officer.

Afterwards he headed back to his flat. He still felt like it was a dream

Thankfully, Phichit was asleep when Yuuri got back. _That’s odd,_ he thought, looking down at himself in the dark. _My hands aren’t shaking._ As if in a trance, he put his bag down, undressed, climbed into bed. _T_ _his all feels so normal_.

 

_Perhaps when I wake up it will all have been a bad dream._


	5. Chapter 5

Yuuri was woken by a frantic knocking on his apartment door.

“Yuuri!” a voice called.

“Huh…?” Yuuri mumbled, rubbing his eyes groggily. Shoving on his glasses and stumbling to the door he squinted at his visitor in the midday sun as he unlatched the door.

“Yuuri!” Victor threw his arms around him, squeezing tightly.

“V-Victor?!” Yuuri gasped in surprise, too shocked to respond to Victor’s hug.

“I’m so sorry about your family,” Victor held Yuuri at arm’s length, a look of anguish on his face. “I’m sure they were great people.” _Oh. Not a dream then,_ Yuuri thought numbly.

“Victor… how did _you_ know about that?” Yuuri searched Victor’s face for any sign of guilt; Victor’s area of speciality was already taking a turn to back-street-murders, it wouldn’t be surprising if Yakov’s syndicate were setting him up for arson too.

Victor’s face darkened. “I’m sorry, Yuuri. This is my fault.”

Yuuri wrenched himself out of Victor’s arms, stumbling back into the flat. “You…. _You_ killed them?!” Yuuri continued backing away as Victor advanced, searching behind him with his hand for the knife drawer in his shared kitchen/diner.

“No, no Yuuri,” Victor held out his hands, trying to placate Yuuri as he stepped into the flat. “I don’t know who it was, but…” his face darkened again for as second. “I have an inkling.” He didn’t elaborate.

Yuuri found the draw handle and slid it open quietly, groping around for a knife. “Why should I believe you?”

Victor put on an expression of mock-pain, sighing a hand against his forehead. “Oh, Yuuri you wound me so.” Nevertheless, Yuuri thought he caught a glimpse of a split-second flash of hurt before Victor collected himself.

“May I have a seat?” Victor sat at the small wooden table in the dining area almost directly in front of the door, turning his body to the left to face Yuuri in the kitchen area. Yuuri turned his body to hide the knife he grasped in his hand. Victor briefly propped his head on his hand to gaze at Yuuri but after seeming to remember the seriousness of the matter, adopted a more serious pose, looking directly at Yuuri. “Yuuri, your parents were killed because you were seen with me.”

Yuuri’s hand started to shake around the knife, but he kept his grip firm. He just needed to wait for the right moment to strike. Victor had admitted himself that the murder was his fault; it was only right that justice was served.

“I… I see,” Yuuri managed through clenched teeth.

Victor sighed; in guilt, in relief, in exhaustion. Putting a hand to his temple, he closed his eyes briefly as if this encounter exhausted him. “Business can be messy in the underbelly of Sitz. Yakov’s syndicate may be the best, but that doesn’t stop competitors from getting ahead of themselves; they’ll jab Yakov anywhere it hurts, and through anyone he cares about.”

Yuuri snorted, although he was shaking, and tears had started to well up at the thought of his parents’ death. “Cares about? You had to buy your way out of his brothels.”

“When I say care, I mean as if I were an investment.” Again, that almost imperceptible darkening of Victor’s expression. “I have turned over a significant profit for the Feltsman syndicate.”

“So… they came after my parents because I am… associated with you and you are valuable to Yakov?” Yuuri raised an eyebrow. “Seems a bit of a leap in logic.”

Victor barked a laugh. “Yuuri, I am an assassin. I don’t exactly get _close_ to people.”

“Then why are you here, Victor?” Yuuri asked. “Won’t you just be putting me in more danger?” _Just wait for him to let his guard down._

“I have a proposal for you,” Victor said, leaning back in his chair and surveying Yuuri through tired, narrow eyes.

“Yeah?” Yuuri said, pulling the drawer open slightly more with his wrist so he could draw the knife out quicker.

“I admit that it was my fault your parents were brutally incinerated,” Victor said, no hint of emotion on his sharp-boned face. “So I am willing to train you.”

Yuuri’s grip around the knife slackened for a second. “What?”

“Self-defence. How to fight, torture, hide your trail. That sort of thing.”

Drawing the knife slowly out of the door and angling his body so it should be harder to notice Yuuri’s hand carefully tucked behind his back, Yuuri arranged his face into an expression of shock. “R – Really?” he said quietly. Two steps away. “You would do that? For…” just a little closer. He forced himself to keep staring into Victor’s eyes. “… For me?”

Yuuri swung the knife around in an arc towards Victor’s neck.

Before the knife had gotten even halfway to Victor’s neck, the knife was to Yuuri’s own throat. Victor was behind him, a hard wall of muscle pressed against Yuuri’s back.

“Yes, Yuuri,” he muttered in Yuuri’s ear, a sharp edge to his voice. “I really would do that for you.”

Yuuri swallowed, trying not to cut his own throat on the blade. “Do I have a choice?”

Oh course!” Victor crooned, a dangerous edge still in his voice. “As long as you don’t try anything stupid. Like trying to attack an infamously ruthless assassin with a kitchen knife.”

Yuuri was silent, weighing up his options. Victor may have caused his parents’ deaths, but this could be a prime opportunity to take down Victor Nikiforov’s mentor; Yuuri had nothing to lose by learning how to fight, or by getting close to Yakov Feltsman.

“Fine,” he muttered.

“Hm?” Victor leaned in further, his warm breath ghosting over the shell of Yuuri’s ear.

Trying not to shudder Yuuri spoke louder. “I said I’ll do it. Teach me how to fight.”

“Oh, good~” Victor’s grip didn’t loosen. “It wasn’t a choice anyway.”

 

**

“You’ll be staying here,” Victor pushed open the gates of Yakov’s house on La Rue de Ciel. The name ‘Nevermore’ was inscribed on each gatepost.

Yuuri gulped.

From the outside the mansion just looked like any other stately home; the building was made of a warm grey stone, surrounded by an immaculate lawn peppered with statues, flowerbeds and fountains. It was only around the back of the house, in an area enclosed by a high hedge that outdoor combat training was conducted. Yakov didn’t like to unnecessarily remind his neighbours of his profession, Victor explained.

The opulence did nothing to lessen Yuuri’s discomfort as he walked beside Victor up the drive.

“Yakov may be rich but he doesn’t splash out on servants. There’s a communal laundry room and kitchen so you’ll have to fend for yourself until Mila gets you on the food roster. Mealtimes are a bit messed up anyway because of our… missions.”

Victor continued to give Yuuri the rundown of the place as they made their way up the long drive and up three flights of staircases to reach Yuuri’s room.

“…and, here we are. I have three bankers to frame and a duchess to poison tomorrow, so we can train between two and three. Bye!” Victor waved cheerfully and shut the door behind him. Yuuri heard his footsteps echoing down hall. _Thanks…?_ Sighing, Yuuri turned away from the door and looked at his room.

Yakov’s guest room – one Victor had apologised for the size of – was the size of Yuuri and Phichit’s shared flat. There was a four-poster bed, with a wonderfully soft mattress and fluffy pillows Yuuri allowed himself to bury his face in _four…_ _three… two… one… get up, Yuuri._ Sighing, Yuuri peeled himself away from the mattress to explore the rest of his room. There was a desk furnished with stationary, pens, drawing pads and art supplies. An entire wall of the room was bookshelves. Opening a door to the en suite, Yuuri found a sunken bath tub – with _running water_ – a shower, a plumbed toilet and a sink with gilded taps. The entire bathroom was furnished in glistening white tiles. Not for the first time Yuuri felt guilty about leaving Phichit without the months’ rent; the young playwright was struggling enough to get his play shown as it was, he didn’t need to get thrown out of their apartment or worry about Yuuri.

Yuuri unpacked his belongings into the wardrobe, shaking out crumpled clothes – Yuuri had been so on edge he had just shoved the entirety of his belonging s into a suitcase before following Victor to an incognito carriage waiting by the door. He glanced at the clock above the mantel. 2:03pm. Yuuri sighed. _Victor couldn’t have cleared a space for me today? After dragging me away from my flat and confessing to be the reason my parents were murdered? I guess that’s all his schedule could afford._ Yuuri smiled ruefully. He had never done anything so reckless before. Caused his parents’ murder by association with an assassin. Left his roommate with no more than a note and no rent contribution for this month. Yuuri’s smile slipped off his face as he fell onto the bed and rested his head in his hands. _What have I done?_

 

_Crash._

“Hm?” Yuuri stuck his head out of the door. Nothing. The corridor stretched out in either direction, the wood-panelled walls and floorboards empty of life or sound. _I wonder what that was._ Yuuri took a cautious step out into the hallway. _Would it be wise to check it out in a house of assassins and thieves?_

Ignoring logic and all sense of reason (he was bored) Yuuri took another step out into the hallway, craning his neck to try and see where the noise had come from. He even removed his glasses in the hope that his far-sighted eyes might reveal something. Finding nothing, Yuuri took another step towards the probable origin of the sound.

As he wasn’t bludgeoned, burnt alive or stabbed after the second step, Yuuri continued on, peering behind him every few steps. He had just reached the end of the corridor, and was peering around the edge of the wall down the stairs when –

“What are you doing?”

Yuuri jumped about a foot in the air. “M-Mila! I was just… uh…” _What are you doing? You have nothing to be embarrassed about._ “… I heard a noise and I… wanted to check it out.”

“Yuri! Oh~” Mila winked. “You’ll be hearing a _lot_ of noises when you’re here. I advise you not to go chasing after every sound you hear.”

That sounded slightly ominous. Or kinky. Probably both.

“…anyway, I’m guessing Victor didn’t give you a tour?”

Yuuri shook his head. “Just the basic rundown. The laundry’s on this floor, kitchen on the ground floor. Stuff like that. He left in quite a hurry.”

Mila nodded. “Ah, yes. He has a diplomat to implicate tonight, and he needs to take care of some… personal business. He said it was quite important.” Yuuri raised an eyebrow but decided not to enquire.

“Come on, I’ll show you around. I have a free afternoon and you’ll need some advice if you’re going to survive here.” Mila gave Yuuri an in depth tour of Nevermore, the guest rooms, the offices, the banquet rooms. She wasn’t a chatterbox, but she was pleasantly talkative, and funny enough to occupy Yuuri’s mind. Mila even showed him the network of hidden passages Yakov had had installed for spying on guest rooms, including the ones for Yuuri’s own. Yuuri memorised the spots and decided to cover them as soon as he was back in his room. Yuuri’s stomach had been too wide to fit through some of the passages, to Yuuri’s horror and Mila’s wild amusement.

On the ground floor an enormous banquet room and a kitchen spanned off from the cavernous entrance hall, along with numerous reception rooms and Yakov’s own private quarters. Mila said there was a staircase inside that led to more private rooms on the first and second floors.

The first floor contained mostly bedrooms and more reception rooms. The third, however, accommodated Yakov’s elite; those chosen to reside at Nevermore with him, investments too valuable to let live away. Most of the lesser assassins and whores he kept at their respective brothels or taverns.

Mila didn’t bother with the attic, and said she’d save the armoury and training rooms in the basement for Victor to show Yuuri. “I want him to see the exact look on your face, she said. “We’re betting on your reaction. And after the Christophe fiasco, he doesn’t trust my word anymore… anyway, on to the kitchen!”

Yuuri almost orgasmed. There were glass-fronted cupboards loaded with ingredients, and sunken deep into the wall in a corner was a cold box; Yuuri had heard they could keep meat fresh for days. The wood-powered oven was three times the size of the industrial oven at his parents’ bakery, a cream enamel machine bordered with black and white tiles and black marble countertops.

“Like it?” Mila laughs at the look on Yuuri’s face. “Yakov had it custom-made. Supposed to show how filthy rich he is or something, though he always gets caterers in for events.”

_Scree. Scree._

Yuuri searched the room with his eyes, finding the Ice Tiger glaring at him from a corner, running a blade over a whetstone. _Scree. Scree._

Ignoring the less-than-friendly reception Yuri had given them, Mila gracefully hoists herself up onto a countertop, sticking a lollipop in her mouth and pulling down a roster from beside the oven.

“Now, Yuuri. Can you cook?” Mila asks, tapping a pen against the lollipop stick in her mouth.

“Uhh… a little,” Yuuri replies. “My family, uh… they ran a bakery.”

“Ran?” mila enquires. “What happened to it?”

“It was…” Yuuri swallows. He’d been doing so well, Mila’s tour keeping his mind busy. “… It was burned down, yesterday.” Mila claps a hand to her mouth, eyes wide.

“Oh, Yuuri, I’m so sorry!” she pauses for a second, trying to decide if her following question is tactful. “And your… your family? Are they…?” she lets the question hang in the air between them. Yuuri only shakes his head, biting his lip. “I’m sorry, Yuuri.”

There is silence for a moment, before Mila clears her throat and tries to change the subject.

“Now, then, about the roster…”

Yuri Plisetsky just watched silently from the corner.


	6. Chapter 6

Yuuri woke up with a pounding headache. From down the hall Yuuri heard a grandfather clock chiming. In his painful and sleep befuddled state he thought he heard eleven chimes.

 

Mila had treated their newest member to Yakov’s extensive collection of alcoholic substances. Georgi had drank with them but he wasn’t much fun as he started crying about his ex, some girl Yakov had made him kill almost two years ago. Yuri had left early as Mila had only pinched their cheek and given them apple juice. Yuri was simmering, but Mila had been adamant. “It’s still three months until you’re old enough to drink, Yuriiii~” she had slurred. “I’m a RESPONSIBLE paaar-entt.” Yuuri had had to quickly comfort her she was doing a good job before she burst into tears.

 

Victor had arrived later, quietly washing his hands at the kitchen sink before joining them at the table for shots. He had been quiet, but he had shot Yuuri a long and lingering look across the table that seemed to suggest that he was sorry for leaving him alone earlier. At least, it had at first; as Victor held his gaze, Yuuri’s cheeks began to burn hotter than the oven. He liked to think it was just from the alcohol. After he finally broke Victor’s gaze he couldn’t stop smiling for the rest of the night, blushing profusely any time he and the silver-haired male made eye contact. Mila was too far gone to comment.

 

Rubbing his eyes Yuuri rolled over and squinted in the light from his windows. Despite his pounding headache Yuuri pulled on some clothes, stumbling to the kitchen to make himself a coffee. Hands shaking he spilled half the ground coffee before managing to make himself a mug. After about a minute of careful consideration he thought he’d make one for his mentor, too. He’d had little practice nursing hangovers as Phichit had stopped dragging him to social evens after he found how uncomfortable they made Yuuri.

 

Rubbing his eyes he sighed before glancing at the clock. 2:41.

 

“… Huh?” Eyes widening through the fog of his hangover Yuuri’s eyes widened again dumbfoundedly. “HUH?!”

 

Slamming the kitchen door open he yelled up the stairs. “Victor!” Yuuri scrambled up the stairs as fast as he could. “Victor, you’re… going ... to be late!” Yuuri took a moment to catch his breath, embarrassingly out of breath even after the first flight of stairs.

 

Yuuri skidded to a half in front of Victor’s door where he had remembered depositing him the night before.

 

“Victor!” Yuuri hammered on the door. Victor hadn’t latched it properly and it flew upon revealing a barely dressed Victor entangled in bedsheets, groaning lightly at the noise. Yuuri took an involuntary step back.

 

“V-Victor…? You said we had training today between 2 and 3??”

 

The silver haired man stayed adamantly tangled in his bedsheets, eyes still closed. Yuuri thought he heard an irritable groan, though.

 

“Victor?” Yuuri took a cautious step towards the sleeping form on the bed.

 

And another.

 

And another.

 

Yuuri looked at Victor’s sleep-rumpled hair, the bare chest under the white sheets and his cheeks flushed a little. He took a step closer, unable to stop his eyes roaming across the muscular expanse of Victor’s back, from the corded muscles of his shoulder down his spine down, down, down…

 

Yuuri blushed, ashamed of himself and looked away hurriedly.

 

“Victor,” he said louder.

 

Victor’s eyelashes fluttered. “… Yuuri?”

 

Yuuri’s shoulders sighed in relief. “Oh thank god.” Moving round the other side of the bed Yuuri handed Victor his coffee. “I made you this.”

 

Rubbing a hand across his temple Victor sat up and took the coffee, sheets slipping dangerously low. Face bright red Yuuri gave a little _gulp_ and tried his hardest to avert his eyes.

 

Seemingly unaware of Yuuri’s discomfort Victor took a sip of his coffee. “Thank you, Yuuri. No poison? How disappointing.”

 

“Wh-what?” Yuuri stuttered “why would I..?”

 

“Well, I did say assassination training between 2 and 3, and poisoning is, well, a vital part of assassinary.” Victor put down his coffee and stretched and _oh my god does he not know he’s doing this._

 

“Could you… could you stop. Please?”

 

“Hm?” Victor turned his head to the furiously blushing Yuuri in front of him, head ducked away from Victor’s exposed form on the bed.

 

The consequences of his almost nudity now realised, Victor gave Yuuri a wicked smile, stretching further like a cat. “What do you _mean_ , Yuuri?~”

 

Victor was toying with him, Yuuri could tell that, but he was unable to deny his embarrassment at _the_ Victor Nikiforov’s barely covered form.

 

“Could you…” Yuuri was shaking so hard he could barely talk. “Put some clothes on!” He made a hasty tactical retreat from the room. (Very different to running away) (Totally)

 

 _Phew._ Yuuri rested the back of his head against the door, breathing heavily. He’d been in such a rush to get away from Victor. _He probably thinks I’m such a dork._

 

 _Ding_. Yuuri moved down the corridor, trying see the clock. One strike for quarter to. Yuuri gulped. Already quarter to three and Victor hadn’t even got dressed yet; at this rate there wasn’t going to be any training today. Not that there was any rush, he supposed. Once Victor had repayed his “debt”, Yuuri would be on his way and have to find another job. _I hope this doesn’t make me unemployable._

 

Sighing, Yuuri slumped against the banisters, trying not to aggravate his slightly-less-blinding headache and waited.

 

It was one minute to three by the time Victor emerged from his room, looking suitably refreshed, not a hint of the sleep-rumpled, hungover figure he had been only fifteen minutes prior.

 

“Well, Yuuri?” Victor held out a hand to help Yuuri up. “Are we going?” Hesitantly taking Victor’s hand and allowing himself to be pulled up Yuuri only nodded towards the clock.

 

“Oh!” Victor dropped Yuuri’s hand in surprise. ”Guess there’s no time to show you the armoury and stuff today. Want to walk with me into town?”

 

“S-sure,” Yuuri followed Victor down the stairs.

 

Just as they reached the bottom, the door to Yakov’s office swung open. Out stepped a man a man with green eyes and the longest eyelashes Yuuri had ever seen. Seriously this dude must use mascara.

 

“Victor~” the man greeted them in a sultry tone. “I see you’ve found yourself a new whore. I heard him screaming your name earlier.” The man looked Yuuri up and down.

 

Yuuri flushed in embarrassment. “It’s not… I’m not…” he tried to say, but he was too quiet and Victor interrupted him.

 

“Christophe,” Nikiforov greeted, his tone amicable but carefully guarded. “What are you doing here?”

 

“Oh, I had some business to attend to with Yakov.” Christophe stepped forward, looping an arm around Yuuri’s shoulders. Yuuri froze under Christophe’s firm grasp. “This and that. You know how it is.”

 

Victor’s handsome face could have been set in stone he was staring so hard. Even though he wasn’t the focus of Victor’s gaze yuuri quivered a little under the sheer intensity of it. Unchallenged by the glare, Christophe slid a hand further and further down Yuuri’s back as he continued to converse in a decidedly sultry tone with Victor about business and people they knew. Victor’s answers were short and he did not relinquish his steady hostility.

 

Yuuri audibly gasped and his cheeks flamed as Christophe’s hand drifted low enough to grope his ass.

 

“I’m afraid we’ll have to be going now,” Victor said, grabbing Yuuri’s hand and dragging him away from Christophe.

 

Victor didn’t let go until they were halfway down the driveway. Hands in his pockets, posture immaculate, Victor’s gaze was still hard and his gaze strictly forwards. Not daring to say anything, Yuuri fell quietly into step with Victor, jogging a little at times to keep up with Victor’s lanky stride.

 

Victor’s face was set and silent as they walked through the richest neighbourhoods until they reached the market district. Victor turned to Yuuri.

 

“I’m sorry I’ll have to leave you here, Yuuri.” His cool tone had returned.

 

“Oh, it’s no problem…” Yuuri awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck. He was still a little embarrassed about the incident with Christophe, though he _knew_ there was nothing he could have done. “Do you… know what time you’ll be back?”

 

Victor gave him a little smile. “Impossible to tell. We should be clear for between 6 and 9 tomorrow for training. Enjoy the market, Yuuri.” Victor walked off.

 

“Bye…” Yuuri half lifted a hand in a wave before sighing and resting his forehead in his hands. His headache was still there, but it had cleared up a little and after a few minutes slumped on a bench, Yuuri decided to look around the markets.

 

The first place he headed to was the Penmen market sector, where he hoped he might find Phichit, buying supplies for his latest burst of inspiration.

 

Sure enough, Yuuri hadn’t been browsing long when he heard a shout from behind him.

 

“Yuuri!” Phichit waved, struggling to get through the crowds “Yuuri, where have you _been?!_ ” Phichit threw his arms around his (former) flatmate, chattering away as Yuuri slowly reciprocated the hug. Eventually Phichit let go, and the two strolled through the market as they would do before, Phichit informing Yuuri of the latest drama at the theatre (of which there was always plenty), his plans for getting a new hamster – “I’m sure they won’t eat him! … Like they did with Toto… and Fireball… and Bazinga…” – and, as they reached a quieter part of town, Yuuri’s parents.

 

“They’re being… kept at Seung-Gil’s mausoleum, right? You’ll have to get a…” Phichit swallowed, looking sideways at his friend. “…a funeral sorted.” Yuuri kept silent, trying to keep his emotions under control. Phichit continued, his voice quiet. “You’ll ned to see the insurance company, too. There’s a matter of you coming into some money or something. It’ll at least help pay for the funeral.” Phichit fell silent, not wanting to push Yuuri any more, just to be a quiet companion at his side, silently offering his solidarity and support.

 

“Thank you, Phichit.” Yuuri said after a while. His gaze was downcast. _He looked,_ thought Phichit. _As though he has had the entire world placed on his shoulders._ In a way, Yuuri had. His entire world had been his parents, the bakery and his flat. He had never even left the city.

 

“I should get back,” Phichit said. “It’s getting dark.”

 

Yuuri looked up in surprise, like he hadn’t even noticed the shadows that had grown around his feet. “Yes,” he agreed quietly.

 

“I’m free around 2 tomorrow if you want me to come with you to the insurance company,” Phichit offered as they stood at an intersection about to part ways. Yuri nodded, accepting Phichit’s farewell hug.

 

Subdued, he sloped away back to Nevermore.


	7. Chapter 7

Not gonna lie, it looked like a sex dungeon for a very particular sadist. One corner of the room was dedicated to instruments of torture for gleaning information, and in the centre of these devices was a door Victor informed him that led to cells for prisoners, enemies and spies who had turned against them. Yuuri didn’t want to go down that corridor; whenever he was in that section of the room he could detect the underlying scent of blood. Training mats occupied the centre of the room, some fenced off for sparring practise. An entire wall was lined with weapons; knives, daggers, sword – Yakov had samples of even the latest inventions of destruction, a cold metal-and-wood object called a “gun”. Some were long and fired powder, other smaller version shot pellets of metal – Victor called them bullets – and (limited) targets were set up in a sort of corridor-alcove that stretched longer than the chamber.

 

The spiral staircase Victor and Yuuri descended from was iron, and it emerged next to a countertop of medical supplies. Yuuri felt like he would make use of most of those medical supplies after one training session.

 

Victor was all business, taking barely a second to gauge Yuuri’s reaction for his bet with Mila. “We’ll start with dagger throwing. It’s a good start for getting used the weight and feel of the knives,” Victor strode over to a section where his weapons were kept. It was evident they were his just by their look; they were silky and reflective, slim and light although there was a solid weight to them, Yuuri thought as he lifted one to test it.

 

He headed to the large selection of unassigned weapons, selecting a variety of different-shaped knives that were from the same collection or maker, like a china cup is to a tea set. They were serrated with smooth wooden handles, not dissimilar to the industrial kitchen knives that had been kept at the Katsuki bakery.

 

Victor demonstrated with pinpoint accuracy how the knives were to be thrown. Yuuri tried, on the closest target but he was embarrassingly disappointing; the timing of his steps was off and he couldn’t keep the knife horizontal. Yuuri didn’t expect to be good, but he hadn’t expected to be this _bad_ either. Distance wasn’t a problem; Yuuri was just strong enough to reach the targets, but the knives spun or veered and he didn’t land a single shot.

 

“No, Yuuri, like his,” Victor was unashamedly amused by Yuuri’s failure. Victor took a step to stand behind Yuuri, wrapping a slim and muscled arm around Yuuri’s own, fingers curling against Yuuri’s own to angle the knife perfectly. His hair was brushing Yuuri’s cheek. He could feel Victor’s lean torso pressed against his back, breath warm against his ear.

 

Victor drew Yuuri’s arm back steadily, a little clumsily since he wasn’t used to compensating for someone else’s throwing arm, and released.

 

_Thunk._

 

It wasn’t perfect, but the knife stuck solidly in the second ring from the middle.

 

“Well done Yuuri,” Victor breathed. Yuuri shivered.

 

The rest of the training session was similar, Victor demonstrating and then helping Yuuri with techniques and fancy tricks that would make him seem like he knew what he was doing and hopefully avoid a fight.

 

Victor’s enthusiasm made Yuuri blush; the famed assassin, the legendary whore, was so simply overjoyed whenever Yuuri managed to get the slightest thing right. Nevertheless, they moved on quickly, and though Yuuri will had his doubts he was surprised how much he was progressing, even though knife-throwing did remain his best skill.

 

**

 

Yuuri was still enigmatic about where he was staying and what he was doing, but thankfully – although Phichit raised a dubious eyebrow and Yuuri knew he longed to plague him with questions – the young playwright did not pursue the matter further, and for that Yuuri was glad. He didn’t want to endanger Phichit, and it would be awkward admitting how hopeless he was at anything even mildly menacing. _That’s what you think about Yuuri? Not the fact that the greatest assassin in Sitz seems to believe he owes you a debt or that you eat breakfast with the killers of the Feltsman syndicate? You think about how bad you are at it?_ Yuuri hummed a small laugh to himself, before tuning himself back into Phichit’s chatter.

 

Phichit was working on a new play, a comedy. It wasn’t like any sort of play Yuuri had heard of; it was dancing, but not. It was entertainment, it was funny, but not _quite_ a comedy Phichit insisted. At least that’s what he gleaned from Phichit’s babble.

 

“- and we’ll need at least twenty new dancers, Yuuri. Twenty! Of course I’ll need to get it cleared first; this is the biggest thing I’ve ever written. And it’s going to be amazing!” Yuuri grabbed Phichit’s wildly gesticulating arm to drag him out of the way of a passing cart. Phichit didn’t seem to notice, continuing twice as loudly.

 

“- and we’re having proper lights, lights like the ones in Le théâtre du soleil. We’d be getting those anyway, but it’s great because I had a light scheme in mind, though, I don’t know if they’ll accept it; playwrights don’t _usually_ do the lights, but this! This isn’t a usual play, Yuuri…”

 

Phichit continued right up until the marble columns of the insurance firm, where he suddenly drooped, like something had put out a light inside him, or like he had remembered the darkness Yuuri carried. His hands dropped, and he kept firmly pressed to Yuuri’s side in support.

 

The amount Yuuri got from insurance was… surprising. Having only moved out of his parents’ house about a year ago, and without a job non-reliant on his parents, Yuuri had never had never had a large amount of money. He decided it would be fair to share half with Mari; after all, studying abroad wasn’t cheap, and Yuuri had only a month ago persuaded her to take her dream course, even though she had been reluctant to cause her family the expense.

 

The letter was harder to write than Yuuri anticipated, though. How could he explain that it was _his_ fault that their parents – and their only family – had been murdered? Yuuri hadn’t even dared to speak to Minako-Senpai, a family friend about what had happened. He hadn’t seen her since the fire, and he wasn’t in a mood to seek her out. _What would I even say to her?_ But she must know what happened. She had run a small and previously-successful gang of sorts, mainly consisting of a club, with rigged cards and expensive alcohol. She was more moral than most. Yuuri didn’t even _know_ who was responsible; Victor was deliberately enigmatic, and steered Yuuri away from the subject _every time_ he brought it up.

 

Yuuri sighed, leaning back in his desk-chair. This was stressing him out.

 

“Yuuri!”

 

 _Victor._ Yuuri thought, a small smile curving on his lips at the sound of Victor's voice. _If he thinks he’s going to take me on another ‘short' run again he’s got another thing coming._ There was a knock on his door. “Yuuri, I’m making curry do you want some?” _Huh. Well that was more pleasant than I expected._

 

“Sure, I’ll be right out.” Yuuri said, sighing and shuffling together the paper he’d strewn everywhere in his desperation. He liked to keep his space tidy.

 

He looked down at himself. _Should I change?_ In his apartment with Phichit he normally sloped around in pjs, but no _way_ was he going to do that here. Victor making supper sounded special; he’d never offered to cook before. Should Yuuri dress up? What would he even _wear_ to dress up? A shirt? What if I’m taking too long? Will he think I’m worrying about what to wear? Why _am_ I worrying about what to wear?

 

 _No_.

 

Yuuri squared his shoulders. He would go as he was; simple navy long-sleeved t-shirt and jeans. Everything would be normal. Everything would be fine.

 

**

 

Except it wasn’t. Victor’s style was always pronounced, but he had clearly made an effort. He was wearing a maroon sweater – surely that must be new? – Which offset the colour of his eyes well. _They look like that Bombay sapphire drink,_ Yuuri mused. _The one Minako-Sensei always used to drink._ Jolting upright from where he had been slumped over one hand looking at Victor Yuuri mentally chided himself. _What the hell are you thinking? Why are you comparing the eyes of your platonic acquaintance to an alcoholic beverage?_ Yuuri tended to get more formal in his head whenever he was reprimanding himself. It made himself feel inferior.

 

“Where’s Mila? She hadn’t said she had a job today. Did Feltsman give her a sudden assignment?”

 

“No, no,” Victor slid into the seat across from Yuuri. “She’s visiting her girlfriend. Sara works odd hours.” There was silence for a moment as Yuuri decided if the question he was to ask was tactful.

 

“Is she an… assassin like Mila?”

 

Victor barked a laugh. “No. she’s a whore. Sex worker, whatever you want to call it.” He leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms (Yuuri did _not_ sneak a glance. Not one. That would be preposterous) before sitting forward in his chair and taking a drink. “Mila met her through me, actually. When Yakov was scoping out my _talent_.” He gave a mocking quality to the last word and there was a cruel twist to his lips. The look on Victor’s face almost scared Yuuri. Victor looked as though he was reliving the past, shadows ghosting across his face and his cold, electric eyes.

 

“H-how did she choose that... profession?” Yuuri blurted out. _Anything to stop Victor from reliving..._ that. _Uh. Maybe_ that _wasn’t the most tactful thing to say._

 

Nevertheless it worked, and Victor returned to himself as he tapped a finger against his lip as he struggled to recall. "She and her twin – Michel I think his name is – were living on the streets. No food, no money, you know the cliché,” Victor waved his hand. “So she did what I did. She sold herself, into the brothels. Christophe owns her.”

 

“What about her brother?” Yuuri dared to ask.

 

“He’s never forgiven her, but that hasn’t stopped him from trying to buy her out.” Victor cringed a little, suddenly remembering a detail. “I heard that he stormed right in and demanded to trade places. Christophe refused, of course. The man may be Sara’s twin but he’s ugly compared to her. And no knowledge of social workings; there was bad publicity for months after the fiasco he caused!”

 

 _Huh. I guess Victor must think this Sara is really pretty._ Yuuri couldn’t fathom why he felt a twinge of disappointment, but he shoved it away.

 

“Christophe? You mean the Christophe we met outside Yakov’s office?” Yuuri took another bite of Victor’s ‘cooking’. How he had managed to mess up a meal this simple was beyond Yuuri; he had been baking pork cutlet bowls and pastries without his mother’s guidance since he was seven. And too much salt. Far too much. And a rank, bitter after-taste that reminded Yuuri of the smell that drifted up from the sewers.

 

“Yes. I’m surprised he didn’t try to recruit you,” Victor winked.

 

“Wh-what do you mean?” Yuuri stuttered, his face flaming.

 

Victor waved a hand. “Oh, Yuuri, Yuuri.” He didn’t elaborate further. _What do you mean by that?!_

 

Yuuri didn’t comment and they both choked down their curry in peace.

 

It wasn’t until the pair had finished their meal that Victor commented, deliberately offhand.

 

“So, Yuuri. Tell me what you know about poisons.”

 

 _What? Did Victor…? No. Victor wouldn’t…_ Yuuri looked at Victor’s cool and mirthful expression across the table. _Yes. Yes, he would._

 

“What poison was it, Victor?” Yuuri said.

 

Victor gave a small laugh. “Oh, it’s no fun if I tell you, Yuuri. What do _you_ think?” Victor propped his chin on his hand, looking at Yuuri from under his bangs. An expression of amusement twisted his lips into a gentle smirk.

 

Yuuri gulped. _I was right._ Racking his brains he thought. “A noticeable taste…” he mused aloud. “Bitter. Rank smell, too.” Poking at the remnants of his ‘food’ Yuuri caught a glimpse of a fern-like stem. Were those… purple dots? _Victor probably put that in there to help me._ Looking up from his food he met Victor’s eye. “Hemlock?”

 

“Well done, Yuuri.” Victor stifled a yawn. “Of course, I’ve built up an immunity so it won’t affect me. Training is cancelled for the next few days as you will be puking your guts up.” Victor stood up, and with a wave of his hand left the kitchen. “Enjoy!”

 

**

 

_In the alleyway across the streets, plans were made._

 

_Of course, a place as rich as this, houses all detached, in acres of gardens could never have an alleyway; the alleyway was the place he was before a job, before every job. In this case, the alleyway was an attic, the mirror to the Feltsman mansion’s own, which stared haughtily back at him from over the street. The place was shrouded in dust-sheets, and silent as the family who occupied only the first few floors. He didn’t need to worry about his own noise; he could always kill them if they provided any trouble. Even though nobody was around to see him, he had a grin on his face. It would not be long before he could leave the alleyway._

 

_Leave the alleyway, and become a king._


	8. Chapter 8

Victor didn’t come with him to the funeral.

 

He’d offered, but Yuuri couldn’t face it. He’d rely on Mari, who was taking leave from her studies abroad to travel back to Sitz. The siblings greeted each other with a fierce hug, kinship and grief connecting them as they mourned their lost parents. Her ship docked the day before the funeral, and Yuuri gave her his room at the apartment while he slept on the couch. He begged Phichit not to tell her about the situation; Yuuri loved and trusted Mari but her visit was a grim reminder of the dangers of Yuuri’s current lifestyle with Victor. He would not endanger her as well. Phichit agreed, if Yuuri would _kindly explain what the fuck was going on_.

 

“Later,” Yuuri promised.

 

The funeral was a quiet, personal affair at a Seung-Gil’s mausoleum/crematorium/funeral parlour in a pleasant part of the city. “The fire’s already done my work for me,” Seung-Gil had emotionlessly remarked. “I’ll only charge you for keeping them here. And the service, of course.”

 

“Thank you,” Yuuri said quietly. Cold as it was, Yuuri knew that Seung-Gil’s apathy was to be expected; not extorting Yuuri for all he had was the macabre man’s way of offering sympathy. Phichit had been more emotional in his gratitude, daring to give Seung-Gil a brief hug, which Seung-Gil pulled away from immediately, turning his face to hide a small dusting of pink on his cheekbones. Sparing no expense (Victor had insisted on paying for the funeral), Yuuri blindly chose the most expensive items available. A gilt, personal room held urns full of flower arrangements, niches of statues, and tasteful wood panelling. It was only at the event of the funeral that Yuuri realised his mistake.

 

Phichit sat beside Mari and Yuuri in the first pew, handing the pair tissues while trying to stifle his own crying. Raised as one of the family since he had first met Yuuri at twelve, comforting the siblings now was his practised duty. Yuuri needed the tissues the most; the flower arrangements were making his hay fever worse. Carnations had been his mother’s favourite, and they were studded all around the room.

 

Whenever Yuuri had been feeling down as a kid she had pulled him close to her and told her the story of how her father could have gotten a life sentence for stealing flowers - carnations - for her. She’d always laughed, her eyes crinkling up when she recollected how she’d dragged her husband to the house of the stranger to apologize after she’d found out the truth about the flowers, and how he’d laughed, and they’d chatted and everything had been ok and in the end they’d even traded recipes and became firm friends. Mr Katsuki was the handsomest beau around she’d said, patting his arm. Look at you now! And Yuuri had complained they were too old, using words like ‘beau’ instead of ‘boyfriend’ or ‘girlfriend’. And they’d knit their hands together and smiled at each other, no less in love after twenty years of marriage. Mrs Katsuki still used that stranger’s recipes for her piroshkies. Or, she had.

 

The monotonous drone of an estranged family member came to an end. Mari had already made her speech. Yuuri hadn't made a speech; he knew he would be too anxious to deliver it properly. Minako had said a few words and a couple of relatives had chimed in with their thoughts.

 

Yuuri couldn’t wait for the funeral to be over. He felt guilty even thinking that, but this place was too sad and he’d just been starting to get a grip on his emotions, or at least repress them.

 

Mari and Phichit tried their best to cover for Yuuri at the reception afterwards at Seung-Gil’s, but people kept asking after the Katsuki son. Overwhelmed, exhausted and anguished; the ‘Katsuki boy’ tried his best to keep circulating the room, sticking by Phichit or Mari whenever he could.

 

_If only Victor would be here things might be better._

 

Yuuri physically jolted at the thought: how could he even think that! Phichit had been his best friend for years, to think that he would be replaced in a few short weeks! – It was absurd. But… Victor was good at comforting him. And Phichit did have his own grief to deal with, which meant Yuuri couldn’t be comforted without comforting Phichit at the same time, which – although he hated to admit it – was exhausting.

 

 

By the time Yuuri heard a clock strike nine o’clock he was more than ready to rush out of there, but he kept a steady pace until he was out of the door and around the corner. He ran the whole way back to Nevermore.

 

**

 

“What time is Yura going to be back? It’s their turn to get food tonight.”

 

Yuuri sighed. “He – they, I mean, sorry I’m still getting used to that – don’t seem particularly keen on cooking for everyone.”

 

Victor hummed, heating a sample of seaweed over a fire in the corner of the basement. A thin chimney kept them from asphyxiating, but the room was already kind of smoky. “They’d buy us takeaway if it wasn’t so expensive. One time, when they were fifteen they brought a pile of rocks. Mila had to rewrite the fine print on the rota.”

 

Yuuri raised an eyebrow and smiled. “Typical Yuri.”

 

It had been a few weeks since Yuuri had first sampled Victor’s ‘cooking’ and as he had soon learnt, all the other assassins put poison in their cooking too. Yuuri had taken small samples of each dish to hopefully build up some resistance, but he didn’t want to make himself too ill, so he’d taken to cooking for himself too.

 

Cooking for himself usually turned into cooking for everyone as Mila would always swipe whatever he was cooking, Georgi was extremely adept at stealing and Yuri Plisetsky kindly did not give a fuck about what did or did not belong to them. Victor was even worse. Although Yuuri would have been perfectly happy to share some of his food with his mentor, he still hadn’t quite forgiven Victor for that first poisoning incident, so although Victor was immune to most poisons, Yuuri took care to add the worst ingredients he could think of to any food he let his mentor eat. Yuuri had taken great pleasure in watching Victor choke down his mother’s pork cutlet bowl after he’d added a rotten avocado and half a bottle of soy sauce. Yuuri also took great pleasure in throwing in whatever ingredients he found in the cupboards, though he had limited himself to the kitchen after he almost fed Victor bleach.

 

Despite all Yuuri’s attempts, Victor still stubbornly choked down Yuuri’s food with a smug shit-eating grin on his face and made sure to compliment Yuuri on every dish. Yuuri always pasted on a smile and accepted the compliments, although he was nice enough not to mention that he could hear Victor retching up his ‘cooking’ every night. After all, that might bring an end to Victor’s pretending and Yuuri enjoyed making Victor suffer.

 

**

 

It was a few weeks later when Victor first dropped the question to Yuuri.

 

“Hey, Yuuri.”

 

They were in the basement, each working quietly on various assassiny tasks.

 

“Hmm?” Yuuri looked over from where he’d been sharpening the knives that he’d adopted on his own. He’d chopped and changed a bit, switching round until he found some nicely weighted ebony wood-handled blades.

 

“How would you like to come out on a job with me?” Victor kept his gaze down on the arsenic he was excruciatingly extracting from seaweed.

 

“What?” Yuuri’s assasinary had gotten better but he could barely last eight seconds against Victor in a fist-fight and for all his dance training with Minako, he couldn’t angle his muscles right to land a proper hit with the throwing knives. However, Yuuri didn’t have a chance to answer as a shout suddenly interrupted them.

 

“Victor! You got someone else killed. Get your ass down here I’m not dealing with the body,” Yuri Plisetsky yelled from downstairs.

 

Victor straightened, his body becoming immediately tense. Yuuri looked up in worry and confusion.

 

“What do they mean, Victor? Who’s dead?”

 

A muscle jumped in Victor’s cheek but his face was cool and unreadable.

 

Yuuri followed Victor down the stairs and past a scowling Yuri Plisetsky to the gates of Nevermore where a familiar head was spiked on the intricate bronze gatepost.

 

Yuuri recognized her immediately.

 

“Minako…?” Yuuri breathed.

 

He was numb.

 

As he stared back into the eyes of his mentor, a woman who had, in a way, been closer to him than his parents, he was hollow.

 

A great, roaring numbness spread up through his chest cavity and Yuuri couldn’t tear his gaze away from her eyes, those eyes, oh _god_ they bored into him even though it looked like birds had already started to peck them apart.

 

 _Oh, God._ Yuuri thought numbly. That was all he could think. When Minako-sensei was just _looking_ at him, looking, looking and she wouldn’t _stop –_

 

Victor spun Yuuri around, a lithe wall of muscle separating him from that sight, of Minako, oh god.

 

Beneath the roaring in his ears Yuuri felt rather than heard a voice. Dimly he recognized it. Rather, it was the breath against his ear he recognised, from the first time he had taught him how to throw knives to creeping up on Yuuri whenever he was cooking, but oh god nothing could ever shield him from _that_. Trapped in Victor’s embrace all Yuuri could hear was his heart beating against Victor’s. _Minako’s heart won’t be beating any more_.

 

Stood there, in Victor’s arms, Yuuri felt something crack. He wanted to break the world. He wanted to hurt someone. His hands were shaking against Victor’s chest and his heart was pounding, faster and harder than it had when his parents had died, when all he had left was bones and his sister.

 

“Shh, Yuuri. It’s ok,” Victor hadn’t stopped talking. He was a fortress. He would protect Yuuri. But Yuuri couldn’t hide behind a legend forever. He took a step back and roughly pushed Victor’s arms away.

 

“I’m fine,” he croaked. He avoided Victor’s concerned and searching gaze.

 

He was halfway down the street before he remembered he didn’t have Minako’s dance studio to go to anymore. He almost collapsed on the ground in the pain that was searing through his stomach and up through his chest to wrap around his throat. _I can’t breathe._ His head was spinning and his eyes were cloudy as he stumbled to a halt, leaned against a park bench. Minako would never have died if it hadn’t been for Yuuri.

 

He still had his key; Yuuri kept it on him at all times for occasions like this when he might need his home away from home.

 

Scrambling up, he took the streets at a run, not pausing for breath until he got to Minako’s place.

 

Minako had been teaching him dance since he was small. He knew the way there in the dark and roaring drunk. Stumbling through the door Yuuri changed his clothes as quickly as he could, taking his shoes from his locker before dipping them in the rosin box and stepping onto the floor. The parquet was familiar under his feet, and although the studio was silent Yuuri heard the music, felt it with every inch of his body as he lost himself to dance.

 

Victor could find him here; it was respect that had kept the assassin away.

 

By the time Yuuri had exhausted himself, close to passed out on the floor, he heard a voice above the numb quiet pounding in his ears. He had danced his grief away now the only thing he could feel was the tear of lungs and ache of muscles every time he breathed.

 

There was a hand on his shoulder, shaking him urgently.

 

“Yuuri!” he saw Victor’s face above him, concern showing in the tilt of his eyebrows, but the rest of his face didn’t seem to match. “Are you… ok?”

 

“Hm?” Yuuri sat up, with help from Victor. “Yeah, I’m good…. Just trying to forget for a bit.” Through the calmness Yuuri began to feel the first flush of embarrassment on his checks. “I’m sorry for running off like that.” Victor pulled Yuuri to his chest suddenly, clumsily, and wrapped his arms around him, resting his head atop Yuuri’s.

 

“Yuuri, you had every reason to run off like that,” Victor said, empathy and anguish both rich in his tone, although he slurred a little. “It’s… awful to lose someone.” Abruptly releasing Yuuri, Victor grabbed Yuuri’s hands and tugged him to his feet, stumbling a little.

 

Yuuri had been practising for hours, and the studio was only dimly illuminated by a little of the waning moon streaking through the studio’s large windows. Silvery and ethereal, the moonlight turned Victor’s eyes a serpentine grey as he held Yuuri’s gazes in silence for a second before speaking. Yuuri could smell alcohol on Victor’s breath.

 

“Yuuri, I need your help with… a job.”

 

“…Huh?” Yuuri looked up in surprise. _This is why he came to find me? Not because I was grieving, but for a ‘job’?_ Obliviously, Victor continued.

 

“… We need a new face. Don’t worry, It’s nothing too _big_ for you to handle.” Victor chuckled a little. The bottom of Yuuri’s stomach dropped out at that thinly veiled euphemism and he tried to stop himself from rolling his eyes. _Typical Victor. I bet he’s been drinking with Christophe._

 

“Victor, shut up.” Victor trailed off in shock; even in his intoxicated state _Yuuri_ actively telling Victor to shut up was an action that demanded obedience. Yuuri was normally passive-aggressive whenever he was mad, but now he adamantly continued in the same vein. “Shut _up_. I’ve had a shitty day. My parents have died. My mentor has died. If my sister were still here, she would probably be dead too!” wrenching his hands from where Victor was still holding his, he jabbed Victor in the chest with every enunciated syllable, taking a step forward as he backed Victor into the wall of the studio. “They – all – died – because –“ Jab. Jab. Jab. “Of – _me_. “ Victor was now pressed against the wall, with Yuuri right in front of him. Yuuri had to look up to make eye contact with Victor but this only made him angrier.

 

Victor’s face shifted from intoxicated amusement to slight concern. “Yuuri, ok. I’m sorry Yuuri.”

 

Yuuri didn’t back down. “No, Victor, _I’m_ sorry. Sorry that I got involved with you, or my dance teacher might not have been murdered. My _dance teacher_ , Victor! What the fuck is wrong with these people – _your_ people?!” about halfway through his rant Yuuri had started ugly-crying, but he continued until he made his point. His energy was spent and he pressed a hand to his face, trying to contain his grief.

 

Yuuri went to take a step back, out of Victor’s personal space, but – like earlier – Victor engulfed Yuuri in a hug, albeit an uncomfortable, slightly sweaty, alcohol-smelling affair. Victor slurred something to Yuuri, but it was incomprehensible; Victor hadn’t seemed too intoxicated… how much had he drunk? Ignoring Victor’s drunken ramblings Yuuri slung Victor’s arm around his shoulders, supporting Victor’s shaky legs. _You’d think a hardcore killer with years of training would be able to handle a bit of goddamn alcohol._

 

Sighing, he dragged Victor out into the night.


End file.
